"exploitable" poems
Wake Up Wretched World,
I assert my Indigenous heritage
I self identify
With the ancestors of my continent
Identity afraid to articulate
Culture, unknowingly belonging to me
Cycle of shame now shattered
Product of love, hatred, lust, and desire
europeans plundering my mother Latin America
In chaos and violence, my skin's pigment
Has been engineered through the mestizaje
Of my Indigenous forefathers
How could I not forget my lineage
When the historical legacy of modernization
Has been to massacre the consciousness
Of where my people really come from
Erasing indigenous pride
Making Paisano and Indio
Synonymous with poverty and alienation
Insulting the humbleness
State of hunger you've left us in
Original lineage within me disturbed
So you push me to ambiguity and embarrassment
Not white, not indigenous?
Pure indigenous brothers and sisters silenced
Not an exploitable consumerist market, not in your campaigns
Not benefactors of your philanthropic development tactics
Bodies too costly to abuse, no reason to bring them
Into the neoliberal multinational corporate circuit
Constantly driving them off productive land
Because they choose to assert their identity
Live in collective communes, not owing you nothing
Waiting for them to make barren lands productive
So you can take those lands too
Not capturing an obscure history, these are not colonial times
This is the legacy of the european presence entering mother Latin America
21st century still defiling Indigenous cultures to civilize and modernize
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
I want to live in a protoplasmic land:
Where only earth's natural resources are availed...
but not any exploitable extraction from nature.
where the cacophonies of friction are unheard..
Where the toxic air doesn't seem to arouse from the rooms of renaissance,
Where the sky synergizes with the nature,
Where the oeuvre of the planet remains pristine,
Where the trees vacillate with the harmony of winds.
Where there exists no manufactured light....
But only the piercing rays of self-igniting sun to synthesize the earth with seemingly eonian brightness...
And on nocturnals,star and moon drives me,if moon masquerades,i.e.,
When the commixture of cirrocumulus clouds form an impenetrable layers of watery clouds,
let the thundering light texture me while its clustering clouds embracing me with its rapturous rain,
Let the nature do its own karma,
I am not here to meddle in nature's subtle poise,
but to infuse into it......
O'shiva pave me the unobscure and quintessential way for me to dissolve in to you,
Let me drop my essential earth and dissolve my sumptuous and non-matter soul in to everlasting you....
Let me hush in to those singular days and solitary sounds....
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
What if there was no light,
No inclination to fight,
Mountains, all feasible to climb;
To be in anyplace, and anytime.
What if love was a verb,
No pitfalls, no feelings to curb,
True loves lost in abyss,
No one to meet nor miss.
What if death was avoidable,
and people weren't exploitable,
Earth as Eden;
No sin, no wrong, even.
What if sadness was eliminated,
No choice debated,
Just action, speaking before thinking,
Leaving all people sinking.
For death is still a shadow,
The bite-mark is in the apple.
Love is fate,
ships of sadness and pain:
Humanity as the first mate.
Always surrounded with quandary and question...
But one thing yet to mention:
Eliminate all questions of "what if" in mind,
Then there shall be answers to find.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
Another all-nighter
from Phoenix to L.A.,
delivering paper to the
Times. I'm suddenly
exhausted, now that
the rolls have all been
unloaded and stacked
so high. I gaze up at
an entire forest of
trees reduced to their
exploitable essence.
No messy branches
no troublesome roots
no bark to shed
just nice clean paper
carefully weighed,
labeled, rolled up
tight and wrapped
in heavy cardboard
to keep the dirt out,
looming solid, silent
in the Times' dim warehouse.
No birds here
except for one
lonesome pigeon
who's walking around
hunting for crumbs.
I don't belong here either.
I'll be riding
my steel elephant
back to the corral.
I'll bed down tonight
where the cows all
hang out,
dead, skinned, frozen
inside boxes on wheels,
but that's
another story.
Nov 17, 2010
Nov 17, 2010 at 7:44 AM UTC
I sit in this room, day after day, rotting and rotting and rotting away.
The sun that I see is snuffed by smog,
Transferred to LCDs in parks and streets,
Reminding the coughing passers-by
Of what it looks like to have a blue sky.
And I... I don't want to work a 9-5.
I don't want anyone to.
I don't want to participate in a cancerous system
That consumes continents of life just to churn out some ******* paper and oil.
It sounds apathetic, but it isn't.
I don't pity myself in the slightest:
I pity having to exist in this ****** up world
Where you're nothing more than an exploitable resource,
And where you are among the billions of others that will never be remembered,
Lost in the vast swathes of "disposable" humanity
That live and die in a rigged system
Built for and by those on top.
I just want to get away.
I don't want to be a part of this place.
I don't want to see another school get shot up.
I don't want to read another sensational headline.
I don't want to hear about a "just" war.
I don't want to breathe the toxic air.
I don't want to be see another skyline built by slaves.
I just want to be away.
Every second of every day I feel a desire to get away.
An incessant wanderlust for some place else,
Somewhere that isn't dark, cold, and bland,
Somewhere that wasn't built by poor immigrants.
Somewhere that wouldn't pave a forest to build a ******* parking lot.
Somewhere that isn't here.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 1:54 AM UTC
I am not a fan of my darkness.
I don't want to wake up in a life
Where I consider not existing
A reasonable option.
I can't handle the daily grind,
The salaries and insurance bills,
And all these things I read
On how ****** the world is.
I just want to create things --
I don't want to cause harm,
But I am a source of profit:
Exploitable and disposable.
Suicide is not what I want, though.
I don't want to do that to those that care.
I just want to escape from this place,
This entire ******* civilization.
I can't stand it...
I don't even want to write about it;
I've done it enough.
I'm just so tired of this world,
Of profit margins and bottom lines.
I want to build a cabin in the woods,
Somewhere,
And live off the land --
To forge my own existence.
But that is abandoning humanity:
I feel an obligation to fight for the future,
Like I should give my life for what is right,
For a more empathetic world,
A world of understanding --
Something utterly fleeting,
And probably impossible.
But the fight must be mounted.
Someone must stand.
This world they have built will not last:
Infinite consumption is a hoax,
A lie, a grand delusion.
It will fall, whether we fight it or not.
The real fight is to ensure
That the world that rises
After this one collapses
Is built for the good of all mankind,
And not just the elite classes.
Man has been ruled by greed for too long.
We have been abused and sent to die
In pointless wars and toxic mines.
They preserve themselves:
Where a yacht is pocket change,
While half the world is starving.
They're a parasite that won't quite die:
A tick that keeps finding a crease in the skin
To sink its filthy face in.
We are a bag of blood,
Running dry,
Infested with ticks,
Swollen beyond imagining.
This is not a world worth preserving -
It is a rigged game,
It is a disgrace.
We should be embarrassed
That for all of our creativity,
Our intelligence and passion,
Our insight and foresight,
We allowed this to happen;
This global cataclysm.
It's so ******* depressing.
It's why I can't stand waking up
Some times.
I just hope that, maybe, one day
I will be able to wake up
In a world that has learned from the errors
Of this one.
I really hope it happens.
I really hope I get to see it.
Oh, how magnificent it might be.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 7:50 PM UTC
Putting under a microscope things that are simple
Searching for answers in places unreachable
Overcomplicating things to make them exploitable
If it makes money the cup is half full
Science is like wine for which people drool
Yet it has no answers for it is merely a tool
Look at old tech that lost its spirit - it's no longer cool
The truth neither bends nor changes unlike the fool
Dec 23, 2024
Dec 23, 2024 at 6:40 AM UTC